


Flashes of Memory

by elessar2931



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor canon divergence, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elessar2931/pseuds/elessar2931
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minor canon divergence. Dean wakes up after his hellhound attack expecting to find himself in a pit of fire, but instead finding himself in the arms of a surprisingly attractive blue-eyed stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flashes of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Like 50 First Dates, only not. This is my third attempt at fanfiction. Hopefully I have the hang of it by now. This took me an excessively long time to write. I had to rewatch a lot of Seasons 4 and 5 (not that I'm complaining) so I could get a lot of the scenes right. 
> 
> I do apologize for the terribly cliche ending. I was in a fluffy mood.

He blearily blinked his eyes open. Realizing that he wasn’t in hell, where he had expected to come to after the hellhound attack, he tried to take in his surroundings. He was lying in a bed, no pillow underneath his head, only the bottom half of him covered in the sheets. Numerous cracks and splotches of brown covered the otherwise creamy white ceiling above him. He found a window with burgundy curtains on the opposite wall. It was slightly open, and a cool breeze rolled in through it, chilling him to the bone. He shivered, drawing slightly into himself, and it was then that he registered the feeling of warmth radiating against his torso.

It wasn't an unpleasant warmth; definitely not that of hellfire, like he had expected, which probably would have been searing and white hot, not to mention painful, but that of another body. A warm, sturdy body, pressed against his own, nearly on top of him.

Dean held his breath, shocked to find the body was not only clinging to his, but that it was male. A mess of dark brown hair smelling of vanilla was nestled into his neck, two skinny but strong arms wound tight around his middle. The odd part about it (not that the entire thing wasn’t pretty freakin’ odd) was that Dean’s arms were also wrapped around the other man, reaching behind his back and holding him close, his own fingers locked into place. His chin rested on top of the man’s sweet smelling hair. Dean could feel him breathing onto his bare chest, feel his legs intertwined with his. This was when Dean realized that he was completely naked, and that the man next to him was in nothing but boxer briefs.

"Shit!" Dean flung himself out of the bed, wrenching the mystery man's arms off of him. He tripped over his own legs as they got tangled in the bed sheets, and he scrambled to find some underwear in the heap of clothing at the side of the bed. He threw aside a dirty trenchcoat and a pair of worn jeans he recognised as his own until he found a pair of dark blue boxers and pulled them on. His eyes widened as the man in bed looked directly at him, rubbing a hand through his already crazy hair, and shocking him by the utter blueness of his gaze. The man looked wide awake and as if he hadn’t been asleep at all, but had simply been lying there on top of him all night. He didn’t look like he had just woken up.

The man's eyes widened as he stared up at Dean, mirroring his expression. He slowly sat upright, his fists clenching the sheets before hesitantly pulling them off of himself and getting up out of the bed. He slowly circled around it, never breaking eye contact. His eyebrows were furrowed and his sapphire eyes flooded with concern. "Dean?" he tentatively approached him, his hands held up in front of him to show he meant no harm.

Dean swallowed, not sure how this man, whom he had never seen in his entire life, could seem so familiar, his name sounding normal while rolling deep off of his tongue. Dean took a step back, looking the man up and down, and shit. He was pretty hot. His thighs were thick, muscular- more so than one would guess from his slight frame. Charcoal grey boxer briefs hugged his thighs, and Dean could clearly see the outline of his dick pressed against the fabric. Dean swallowed thickly and turned his attention to the man’s arms, which were also pretty muscular. His chest was nowhere near chiseled, but it wasn't lacking in definition, and most certainly was not flabby. His hands were still held aloft in their submissive gesture, and his face was full of concern and something else Dean was having trouble identifying.

"It's okay, Dean. Don't worry. I'm going to touch you, but don't... Ah- 'freak out.' Please." The way he said the words "freak out" implied that he would be using air quotes had the situation called for a lighter tone in conversation. He took a timid step forward. Dean drew away, not trusting him. He could be a demon for all he knew. Or a shape shifter, a trickster, a vampire, or hell, even a djinn.

Dean looked around the room again. Realizing that they were in Bobby's guest room (what the hell?!) he backed all the way into the bedside table and quickly pulled open the drawer, taking out the silver knife and holy water he knew were stored there. He held the knife in front of himself aggressively and threw a splash of holy water at the man, not caring if he got offended. The man simply wiped his face clean and dried his hands on his pants, not even looking a little annoyed. He only looked resigned and patient. "Dean, I am not a demon."

"Well, who the hell are you?!" He brandished the weapon, still not trusting the guy on his word, despite the fact that he'd passed the holy water test.

The man sighed and stepped even closer, a calm look on his face, obviously not expecting Dean to ram the knife deep into his heart without a second thought, which was exactly what Dean did.

Well, clearly he wasn't a shifter because the silver knife had no effect. Except, that meant that he obviously wasn't a human, either, because the knife had had no goddamn effect.

Dean took a step back in shock as he watched the man glance at the knife and calmly, surely, pull it out of his chest, wiping the blood off and handing it back to him hilt first. Dean stared at it incredulously.

"Dean, I am not your enemy."

"Then who are you?!" Dean was seriously losing his patience. He wanted an explanation, and he wanted it now. He had woken up with his arms around this attractive, blue-eyed creature, lying in a bed in Bobby’s guest room, when he had expected to wake up in hell, getting tortured or watching an endless marathon of Barney or something as equally as horrific as that. Hadn't he just been ripped to shreds by hellhounds last night? Where was Sam? Why were they suddenly in Bobby's house? Why had he woken up naked?! Who the fuck was this guy?! And how the hell was he not dead right now?! "What are you?"

"Dean..."

"And how do you know my name?!"

"Dean." His voice was stern, and his eyes dark. He stepped forward. His expression softened as he drew nearer to Dean. "Let me show you. Please."

He came right up into Dean's personal space, hovering there for what felt like forever. Dean knew he should run. He knew he should be ganking this guys ass because there was some serious shit happening here that he didn’t know about and that usually meant some crazy mojo was going down or about to go down and that Dean would be killing some sons of bitches soon enough. But something about the way the guy looked at him, the way he had said, “Please...”

Dean was torn. There was the obvious solution of beating this guy’s head in and sending him straight to hell-- but then there was that “please,” that look in his indigo eyes... Dean wanted to know how this would end.

The man took another hesitant step closer, getting right into Dean’s personal space, and Dean had to fight the desire to pull away, run. The man cast a fleeting glance downward at Dean's lips before slowly lifting his right hand. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, expecting to feel pain when the hand touched his forehead, or his temple, or the bridge of his nose, anywhere. He expected anything but what actually happened, the man's hand pressing softly into his cheek, cupping his face. His thumb brushed lightly over the skin just above Dean’s upper lip. He could feel the man leaning into him slowly, his shaky breath ghosting across Dean’s mouth, smelling of peppermint, as though he had just gotten back from brushing his teeth.

Dean’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes flying open just in time to catch the other man closing his. He leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to Dean's, causing Dean to have a mini panic attack. He still had no idea who the hell this guy was, and here be was, just kissing him. The worst thing was that Dean was letting him. A complete stranger, who mysteriously had not been injured by the silver knife he'd jabbed into his chest. The same stranger who'd woken up next to him that morning, while he was freakin’ naked and--

Suddenly, Dean was surrounded by black; flashes of intense, red and white light intermittently pierced the darkness; continuous screams and shrieks echoed off nonexistent walls. He was in hell, only he wasn't himself. He was looking at himself. Rushing towards himself with lightning quick speed, weaving between chains of fire and spurts of blood. He was an angel. He raced towards himself, pushing past souls, fighting through demons, never taking his eyes off of his own body, chained and hanging far below in the fiery depths of the deepest hell. Each time he thought he was making progress, the dimensions would bend all around him and he would realize he'd gotten virtually nowhere at all. He flew faster. Fought harder. He killed everything in his path until he finally reached himself, gripping him tight by the shoulder, burning a mark into his skin that ran soul deep. He pulled them both up and up, towards more endless fathoms of darkness. Finally, there was a seam. A break in the inky red layers of hell, and they were hurtling towards it.

And then, Dean wasn't surrounded by darkness. He was in a forest -- or what was left of one. He looked around, knowing he had done this damage, the trees having fallen over, dead. It was like an explosion had gone off. He was staring at the epicenter of the fallen trees, a tiny cross rising up out of the middle. A single hand found its way out of the ground by the base of the cross, and the angel watched as a man emerged, pulling himself up out of the dry earth, gasping for air. He thought, despite being covered in dirt and grime, and despite the fact that he had just experienced the worst of hell, the man, Dean, whom he had just raised from Perdition, was quite beautiful. He watched as Dean turned around and took in his surroundings, mouth agape, chest heaving. He drew away and took flight, glancing back down at the man before he could no longer see him. "Dean Winchester is saved."

His vision went blank. Everything was washed in darkness. Then, folds of black peeled and swirled away until gradually, he came to in a small convenience store somewhere in the Midwest. Dean was looking in the mirror, a look of pure astonishment covering every feature of his face as he pulled up his shirt to inspect himself. His sea green eyes shone with wonder as he inspected the places where his injuries should have been. His bicep was drawn taut as he lifted the hem of his black shirt up to investigate the would-be wounds. The muscles of his chest and torso were chiseled, and gleaming with sweat. His dark sandy hair was matted down with dirt and mud, as was the rest of his skin. His pink lips seemed surprisingly pliant and plump for a man who had spent the last few months underground. The angel had known that Dean was a beautiful human being even before he rebuilt him, before he sewed together all of the broken seams of his anatomy and raised him from hell, but he still wondered at God’s handiwork. Dean pulled up his sleeve to inspect his shoulder and stopped when he saw the mark-- his mark. Castiel’s mark. Dean did not know what it was. Castiel wanted to explain, wanted to tell Dean it meant that he was righteous, that Castiel had saved him from Hell, had given up part of his grace to save Dean and that a part of that grace now resided within Dean’s soul itself, but he doubted that Dean would be able to hear him. After watching Dean in the store for some time, he decided to speak anyway.

 

“You have been raised. You will serve Heaven and the Lord our God. You are saved. I have marked you as one who has been risen by me.” Dean did not respond the way he had wanted. He was obviously unable to make out what Castiel was saying to him, and from the look of it, he was causing him severe pain. After several more vain attempts to communicate, Castiel gave up and flew away.

Dean’s vision changed. Castiel was watching as the psychic woman tried to catch a glimpse of his true form. He couldn’t let her see him. It would put her and everyone around her in danger. But she was grasping his mark on Dean’s arm, corrupting it with her touch, and he was suddenly angry. He wanted to show himself to her, to burn her. She could not touch Dean there-- she could corrupt him. He would not allow it. The mark was a holy sign of Dean’s servitude to Heaven, and Castiel was directly connected to that mark; a part of his grace had separated itself from him and taken root within Dean’s soul, connecting the two as the Risen and it’s Savior, through this mark. She would not touch him there. So Castiel revealed himself. Her eyes burned out, and after realizing how much unnecessary pain he had caused, Castiel regretted his decision. Before he could allow his guilt to consume him any further, he flew away.

Dean’s vision blurred and the faint traces of his own voice ricocheted across the blank expanse of his psyche, slowly coming together as one coherent question: “Who are you?”

“Castiel.”

“Yeah, I figured that much. I mean what are you.”

Castiel looked up then, studying Dean’s face before answering, “I’m an angel of the Lord.”

Dean slowly stood, drinking in Castiel’s appearance before taking on a look of pure incredulity. “Get the hell outta here. There’s no such thing.”

“This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith.” Castiel showed him his wings, unfurling them and bringing them up to arc above his head as proof of his species’ existence. He willed a crash of lightning to illuminate the shadows of his feathers so Dean would be able to see them. He watched, a little proud of himself, as Dean’s eyes widened and mouth parted in shock, drinking in the sight of pure angelic energy and power before him.

Suddenly, Dean was snapped back to reality, feeling the soft press of the man’s lips on his, and a whirling dizziness in his head. It had lasted for hours or for no time at all, Dean wasn’t sure. He hadn’t checked the time when he woke up in a position that was freakishly incriminating to his sexual orientation. He glanced out the window and it still seemed to be morning.

The man (angel) slowly pulled away, opening his eyes at the same time as Dean. They stared at each other, neither one looking away. The man’s hand slipped from it’s warm spot on Dean’s face down his arm, taking hold of his hand. Dean dropped his gaze from the painfully blue eyes and looked straight at their intertwined fingers, but didn’t pull away. For some reason, Dean trusted him. Despite the fact that he could have just been hoodwinked by some kind of powerful enchantress creature, or tricked by a djinn _again_ , he knew that this man was who he had claimed to be. What he had claimed to be.

But he had left so much unexplained.

“Castiel.”

“Yes.”

“How-”

“I am not finished.”

“Oh.” Just then, Dean suddenly remembered the burn he was supposed to have on his left shoulder. He was just about to pull away to check if it really was there when Castiel slid his hand up Dean’s arm and onto his shoulder, seeming to read Dean’s mind, squeezing slightly and sending a ripple of electric shock coursing down Dean’s spine. Dean gasped and closed his eyes, not expecting any of that at all-- that feeling had been... really goddamn good. Shit. It had felt like pure energy was passing through him in rippling waves, traveling from head to toe in 2 seconds flat, erasing all of his doubt that he had been royally duped on its way down. He opened his eyes again to look at Cas, who was studying his reaction closely.

Castiel continued staring at Dean. It was making him a bit uncomfortable, what with their bodies so close together and the way they’d woken up and the fact that they’d just kissed-- Dean had kissed a man, he was just now realizing. And the fact that he was only just now realizing this sort of concerned him. He was straight for Christ’s sake! But hetero or not, Dean wouldn’t deny he thought that this thing in his arms was attractive. He’d come to that conclusion early on.

Dean swallowed and averted his gaze, realizing he had been unintentionally reciprocating Castiel’s soulful stare. _Fuck, man, maybe I am gay._ He’d be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t enjoyed that small kiss.

Castiel seemed to read Dean’s thoughts (again, the fucker), because he slowly laced his left arm around Dean’s waist and then they were kissing again. Only this time, Castiel’s mouth moved. Dean responded in kind, any suspicions he had remaining that this creature before him was some kind of evil entity flying out the window.

Their connection felt like an electric shock this time, similar to the energy he had felt when Castiel touched his mark. It coursed through Dean at an alarming pace, and soon, he was thrown back from their reality once more and into the crevices of Castiel’s memory-- at least that’s what Dean assumed he’d been seeing all that time.

The image materialised into one of Dean sitting on a bench, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he gazed around the park. Castiel was watching him, the sunlight streaming through his hair. Dean had made the right decision, even if the others could not see it. If there was one flaw the angel’s had, it was their lack of humanity. This human in front of him was a perfect representation of his Father’s creation. Castiel could not help but admire him. When Dean turned and smiled at him, he didn’t hesitate to smile back.

The scene morphed into that of the inside of an old barn. Several people stood around, including Sam and Dean, and a young looking red headed woman who approached where Dean stood. Castiel watched as the woman-- Anna-- reached up to touch Dean’s face and they kissed. Something sudden and new-- unexpected-- could be felt in the deepest recesses of Castiel’s most inner being. Castiel had to look away as it slowly clawed it’s way to the surface. He could identify it now, though he didn’t want to. It was something an angel shouldn’t feel because of things such as this. Something they shouldn’t experience at all. His whole existence revolved around a system. Take orders, execute, seek revelation, repeat. Angels had no time for emotions as petty and human as these. But Castiel felt it, and he hated it.

It was longing. If not for Dean, then for the human connection he obviously shared with his sister.

And it most certainly was not for Dean.

The scene shifted and Dean was lying in a hospital bed, his head turned away from Castiel as the angel spoke. “The Righteous Man who begins it is the only one who can finish it.” Castiel turned his head to look at Dean. “You have to stop it.” Dean faced him, looking directly into his eyes, and Castiel could see so much fear there, so much pain and guilt and self-loathing. Broken is the only word Castiel can use to describe it. He wants to make it stop, make it better for Dean, fix him-- but he has no idea how.

They were in a different hospital now. Dean stood before him, looking miffed, Sam stood just behind, and Bobby sat in a wheelchair near the window. Castiel crowded in towards Dean, completely disregarding his personal space and struggling to keep his own anger at bay. “I killed two angels this week. Those were my brothers. I’m hunted. I rebelled, and I did it-- all of it-- for you. And you failed. You and your brother destroyed the world, and I lost everything for nothing.” Castiel couldn’t explain why he felt as though he had been betrayed. He had risked everything for Dean, given everything for him-- his life, his loyalty, his faith, his devotion, his trust. When Dean had failed to stop the apocalypse, all of his sacrifices and choices were suddenly meaningless. He knew Dean had tried. He did. But every time he thought about it, how he had had complete faith in the Righteous Man, that he would succeed, and then for Dean to fail him...It broke Castiel. He had sacrificed so much for Dean-- his connection with heaven had just been severed, and his grace was beginning to slowly leak away-- yet Dean still did not trust him. “So keep your opinions to yourself.”

They were now standing in an alleyway, and Castiel did not understand. Dean had been so insistent that he engage in intercourse, and Castiel couldn’t think of a reason why, though the whole situation seemed to be bringing the man a great deal of amusement, and Castiel couldn’t bring himself to care anymore what was happening. All he knew at that moment was that Dean was happy, leaning against him with his arm slung casually over Castiel’s shoulders, laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. The smile was becoming of him, and Castiel inwardly despaired that it was such a rare thing. He smiled because Dean was smiling, and he tried to forget the disappointment he had felt earlier when he wondered why Dean hadn’t just taught him about the most intimate aspect of humanity that was sex himself.

They were suddenly standing on a road, leftover mist from a passing rain swirling about them and glowing from the illumination of the streetlights. Dean’s eyes were fond as he looked at him, smiling. An odd feeling caused Castiel’s stomach to flutter when Dean put his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t ever change,” he asserted, and Castiel didn’t plan to. He wasn't sure where Dean got the idea he was going to change, or why he seemed so adamant about the subject, but it didn't matter-- he would stay the same for Dean forever, if it was what Dean wanted. He gazed at Dean and smiled, Dean sliding his hand off of his shoulder, and they stood there, studying each other's faces for a long while-- much too long-- and it was just long enough for Castiel to realize that what he felt for Dean may actually extend past loyalty, friendship, and even longing.

The memory morphed into that of a shabby motel room. Dean stood close to Castiel, staring at him with half lidded eyes, and Castiel could smell faint traces of whiskey laced between Dean’s puffs of breath. “Thanks, Cas. For savin’ my ass from those vamps back there.”

“It was my pleasure, Dean.” Castiel shifted awkwardly under his close scrutiny, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck; he finally understood Dean’s multitude of protests to personal space. He began to shuffle away, creating space between him and the human, when suddenly, Dean grabbed his arm and pulled him closer, kissing him hard on the mouth. Castiel slid his eyes closed for a brief moment, reveling in the feel of Dean. This is it, he thought. What I’ve been wanting. He knew because of the overwhelming feeling of fulfillment he got as Dean continued to kiss him, because of the feeling of joy and euphoria that swept through him as he gripped Dean’s arms back and held the man to the spot. He knew because he had never been happier, and he never wanted it to stop.

Dean broke away and they were left staring at each other in a haze. Dean’s eyes were wide and he looked as if he were afraid of how Castiel would respond, until the angel twitched his mouth up into a small smile.

Dean huffed a laugh in what seemed to be relief and placed his hand on the side of the angel’s face. “Felt different than I imagined.” And as Dean leaned in to kiss him again, softer, longer, and sweeter than the first time, Cas thought to himself, Yes. It is even better.

Castiel sat in a wide, open field, against the roots of a large oak tree somewhere in the Italian countryside. The sun was setting, painting the sky a vibrant shade of magenta and orange. Cirrus clouds whirled overhead, mixing together as their particles blew in the warm breeze, and Castiel envied them. They had no one to answer to, no one to take orders from. No duty or divine purpose. Best of all, they had no emotion. They were free. Castiel, on the other hand, felt trapped within himself, his own mind rebelling against him, throwing his life into a daze. Whenever he got close to Dean, touched Dean, even saw Dean, his emotions would betray him.

His whole existence he had followed one straight line, one path with one purpose. Then, suddenly, there were two lines, and Castiel was walking on both of them, between them, until he abandoned the old line altogether and walked the new line. Dean's line. He had followed Dean, and he was still following him, and for some reason the fact that he had chosen to abandon his old purpose in favor of saving humanity, saving Dean, did not disconcert him. He would follow Dean until the end. That he was certain of.

Castiel contemplated the implications of this. Would he willingly abandon heaven in favor of helping Dean? Would he rebel? Would he fall? Would he disobey if it meant he could be with Dean, keep him safe? But he already had rebelled, he was falling, and he had disobeyed. And he had done it all for Dean.

Castiel sat for a long while-- days-- just studying the clouds, contemplating his existence, replaying the kiss in his mind and coming up with all possible implications on both parties’ sides, thinking of the feelings he got when he was around Dean, how he felt when Dean was injured, or angry, or scared, or in pain, thinking of the unbreakable bond he and the man had formed in such a short time, of how he cared for Dean above any other human he had met, any angel he had ever known, how Dean was second only after God to him-- After days of quietly considering all of this, he came to one, staggering conclusion: He was in love with Dean Winchester.

The scene changed, and Castiel watched enviously as Dean hit on Jo by Bobby’s kitchen fridge. Dean was leaning down into her personal space, apparently giving her the ‘last night on Earth’ speech, and Castiel bristled when he saw Jo leaning up to kiss him. A wave of anger swept over him, and he wanted nothing more than to drag Jo away from Dean and claim his lips himself. But the next moment, Jo was pulling away, telling Dean she had self-respect, and leaving Dean disappointed. He wished Dean didn’t look like that, didn’t want Jo like that.

Minutes later, they all stood in Bobby’s living room in front of an old camera, posing. Sam’s arm around Cas’ shoulders, Ellen touching Bobby’s chair, Dean out of reach, holding Jo.

“Bobby’s right. Tomorrow we hunt the Devil. This is our last night on Earth.”

Castiel was sitting alone at the kitchen table, long after all the others had gone to bed, and Dean came back downstairs to sit with him.

“So. Last night on Earth, huh?”

“Dean, if you are planning on reciting the same ‘last night on Earth speech’ to me as you did to Jo, you can abandon those plans.”

“Well, I was, actually... but it means somethin’ a little different this time.”

Castiel looked into the eyes of a blushing Dean. There was a promise there, no matter how faint or distant it was-- Castiel could see it. Dean reached over to lace his fingers with his and he stood, coming around to face him.

“What does it mean?”

“More,” is all his response was before he was kissing Castiel for the second time, urgent and desperate. The hand not occupied by holding firmly onto Castiel’s came up to grip his neck, to push into his hair. Castiel responded likewise, gripping Dean’s sides and pulling him in closer, tasting every inch of Dean’s mouth with his own. He couldn’t get enough of it-- he would never get enough of it.

“Dean.” He broke the kiss off to stare into the man’s eyes, wondering at their color and getting lost in their depth. Dean’s erratic breathing mingled with his own as they stood, grasping each other tightly, not willing to let go.

“Come on, Cas.” Dean let go of his neck but used his grip on his hand to lead him up the stairs and to Dean’s room. They got inside, and Dean turned to look at him once more before closing the gap between them and pressing his body against Castiel’s.

“Dean--”

“I’ve got you, don’t worry, Cas. Don’t worry.” Dean was kissing him again, removing his clothes, pushing him onto the bed, taking his own clothes off. Castiel wondered if this meant the same to Dean as it did to him. If Dean loved him as much as he loved Dean. If Dean loved him at all or if he was just doing this because it was his last night alive and all his other options were spent. He didn’t have time to keep thinking because intense pleasure was shooting up his spine, down his legs, and through his stomach. Dean was straddling his hips now, rolling his own down into Castiel’s, and the slip of their skin was ecstasy. Castiel could not remember ever feeling like this, ever wanting to feel like this, before knowing his human.

“Dean...” He was moaning now. Nothing was left but Dean-- Dean’s hands working Castiel open, Dean pushing into him, Dean kissing him hungrily, Dean licking up the side of his neck, Dean scraping his nails down his sides, Dean sucking a hickey under his jaw, Dean panting his name, Dean thrusting into him over and over and over again, hungrily taking what Castiel willingly gave to him.

Dean came first, riding out his orgasm as Castiel laid there, watching, feeling the way Dean’s pleasure filled him to the brim. When he was done, he rested his forehead into the crook of Castiel’s neck and reached between them, finishing him off, quickly fisting him up and down and kissing his neck repeatedly.

Castiel came then, holding onto Dean for his own dear life, as if his existence depended on him, as if his grace would leak away and stutter into nonexistence if he didn’t find purchase within this human’s soul. Maybe it would.

As Castiel’s breath began to even out, he placed a loving hand over Dean’s left shoulder, covering the scar that he had left there, and squeezed. Dean gasped and buried his face into Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel should have felt shame. He should have felt wrong, given that he was an angel and these sorts of things were unheard of. Love? Reserved for your Father. Desire? Reserved for the desire to carry out your Father’s orders. Copulation? Reserved for the humans. But he could not muster any sense of remorse, any sense of indignity at what he had done or said or felt. He had never felt any stronger towards someone, towards anything, in all his existence. God was the only one Castiel held in higher regard, the only one he had ever loved more.

The memory morphed into one of the front seat of the Impala. The car sat outside of a medical clinic, and Dean was keeping watch, waiting for demons to emerge from the building. Dean sat by his side while he shamelessly devoured a hamburger, speaking around his food and taking bite after bite of the redundant red meat. “I’m just well fed.” He looked up into Dean’s face, the man smirking at him, and in that moment, Castiel felt a new hunger. He hadn’t realized until now (or maybe Famine had not infected him in this way before then) but he also hungered for Dean; for Dean to touch him, to kiss him, to hold him. He was tempted to give in to this new flare of desire as well, tempted to reach across the small space between them and take Dean’s hand, to cup Dean’s face and to kiss him and hold him, but then he was snapped back to reality-- his mouth was full of chewed up red meat and bread, his hands were holding a half eaten hamburger, they were here on an intensely important mission, and the world’s survival depended on their success. Now was not the time or place.

It was nighttime, and Castiel sat hunched over on the bench, staring down at the bottle of pills in his hand. Dean stood leaning against the Impala a few feet away, his hands in his pockets. “On a good day you get to kill a whore.” He raised his eyebrows and pushed off of the car, coming to sit beside Castiel on the bench. Dean rested his arm over his shoulders and pulled him closer until Castiel leaned back into his touch and closed his eyes. They sat like this for quite some time, not saying anything, Castiel quietly reveling in the feel of Dean’s warmth and just watching the sky, the faint stars in the far off distance.

For a moment Castiel felt like he could slip away from all of the hardships they were currently facing. He felt like he could ignore the gaping hole that had been left in his chest when he discovered that his Father had left them all, had abandoned them. For a moment, Castiel felt as if this hole had been patched, had been filled once more by the very touch, the very feel of the man beside him. He looked up into Dean’s face, and Dean looked back, their gazes unwavering. Castiel leaned in, wanting nothing more than to kiss Dean, to feel the man closer, for Dean to help stitch up the hole even further. Dean’s eyes found his lips and he leaned in as well, placing a hand on Castiel’s cheek and bringing him even closer. Both men closed their eyes, and Castiel let the world around him slip away, let his worries get pushed to the back of his mind; nothing else existed in this instant but Dean.

But then the motel door slammed open and Sam came bounding out, causing Dean to jerk backward and Castiel to sit up straighter, looking around for the cause of the interruption.

“Uh-- guys? Oh, sorry, ah-- oh.” Sam grinned sheepishly and giggled a bit like a giddy 5th grader at the sight of his brother cuddling with their angel, their foreheads pressed together and their lips dangerously close, before turning back around and hastily shutting the door.

“Shit, now he’s gonna wanna talk about it.” Castiel didn’t understand why discussing it with Sam would be a bad thing, but he supposed it was since Dean was obviously averse to it. Dean wiped his hand down his face and sighed, slowly standing and loping over to the Impala. Castiel immediately missed his warmth.

The scene changed. A bearded man clothed in all black knelt on the asphalt before him, clutching a bible to his chest and praying aloud. Dean had his back turned to him, and the anger that had been slowly churning inside of him suddenly burst upon seeing the man standing there in front of him. “You pray too loud.” Castiel sent the religious man into a deep sleep and grabbed Dean by the lapels of his coat, violently dragging him into the nearby alleyway.

“I rebelled for this?” He was shouting at Dean, unable to hold his anger back as he slammed the man against the brick wall and pressed in close. “So that you could surrender to them?” He slammed Dean into the wall again and punched him mercilessly, not holding back as the feelings of hurt and betrayal flooded over him. He was no longer surprised at the number of new emotions he had begun experiencing since having met Dean, but these ones he did not enjoy. They were painful and made him feel vulnerable in the worst sorts of ways. Love, he could handle. Lust he could enjoy. But abandonment? Betrayal? Deception? Disloyalty? His heart broke every time he looked into Dean’s eyes, every time his fist made contact with Dean’s jaw. He was conflicted, not wanting to hurt Dean, but at the same time wanting to rip him to shreds for causing him such pain, such confusion and want and anger and need.

“Cas, please--” Castiel slammed him into the opposite wall and pressed in close, making sure Dean would hear his words, would feel as his hands dug into his sides, gripping him tight and intending to bruise.

“I gave everything for you, and this is what you give to me?” Castiel let out his final punch, kicking Dean into the fence that separated the back alleyway from the one they were in now, watching as Dean slumped to the ground, grunting in pain. He stood above him now, his fist clenched in the punch he wished he could deliver, but something held him back.

“Do it.”

He hesitated, looking down into the eyes of the man he loved. The Righteous Man. The Broken Man. For Dean was broken. He had lost hope, had lost himself. Somewhere along the way, through all of the issues he had had to face, against all of the monsters and demons and angels and problems that Dean had had to go up against, Dean had given up. All his life, he had faced nothing but pain and sorrow. His mother. His father. Ellen and Jo. Sam. Castiel could see it now. He could see it in Dean’s eyes, the way he was begging for him to end his misery, for Castiel to put him out and let him have peace for a while, even if it was the result of pain, the result of the person he loved causing him that pain. Dean just wanted everything to stop.

Castiel felt pity, sadness, loss. He did not know what to do. He had just beaten Dean senseless in anger, had yelled at him and thrown him onto the ground in a defeated heap. But now, looking into Dean’s eyes, seeing his shattered soul with nothing left inside of him but grief and a longing for everything to end, Castiel wanted to make it better. He wanted for Dean to see the light in life again, for Dean to not give up and believe there was something still worth living for. He could have his angel. Castiel would always be there.

“Just do it!”

Touching two gentle fingers to Dean’s shoulder, Castiel sent the man into a peaceful sleep.

Suddenly, they stood outside of an abandoned muffler factory in California. “I’ll clear them out. You two grab the boy. This is our only chance.” He slid the tie from around his neck and tucked it into his pocket, reaching for the door.

“Whoa, whoa, wait. You’re gonna take on five angels?”

Castiel turned to look Dean in the eyes. The concern on the man’s face was evident, his incredulity and doubt a little hurtful, if Castiel was being honest with himself.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that suicide?”

“Maybe it is. But then I won’t have to watch you fail.” He hadn’t meant to say the words aloud, but when he did, it felt liberating. This was the real reason he was doing this, risking his life. It wasn’t for Adam. It wasn’t for Sam. It wasn’t even really for Dean. It was purely selfish. He couldn’t bear the idea that he would have to see Dean become the one thing they had all fought so hard and so long against him becoming. He couldn’t bear the thought of Dean throwing away his life, throwing away what everyone who loved him had given him, throwing away what Castiel had sacrificed for him. He wouldn’t sit back and watch as Dean let himself be used as a mere tool in his brothers’ war. “I’m sorry, Dean. But I don’t have the same faith in you that Sam does.”

Dean visibly flinched as the words left his mouth, but he had run out of time, and as much as he would like to say goodbye, to kiss Dean and apologize for not staying with him, for not believing in him, they had a life to save and an apocalypse to prevent. So he turned once again and pushed open the door to the warehouse, focusing on nothing but the task before him and trying to forget the man he had just left standing alone outside.

They stood in an old cemetery, graves jutting haphazardly out of the ground around their feet, names worn away and vines growing over the cracked and chipped headstones. Sam and Dean stood before him, Bobby just behind, and the Impala sat off to his right. Slowly, Sam approached him, his expression livid as he looked at Castiel, and Dean just looked absolutely terrified.

“Castiel. Did you just molotov my brother with holy fire?”

Sam wasn’t himself. Sam was Lucifer. Castiel held up his hands and shook his head, backing slightly away from the archangel. “Um, no--”

“Nobody dicks with Michael but me.”

Lucifer snapped his fingers and then suddenly, Castiel was torn to shreds. His grace was being splattered across multiple dimensional planes of space. He could feel everything yet nothing all at once. He was certainly dead, nothing but black expanses of the universe stretched out before him. He knew he was dead, had ceased to exist, yet, in that instant, all he could think of was Dean; how he had abandoned him again, how he had left him alone to face Lucifer by himself. Sure, Bobby was there with him, but how much longer until he was gone, too? He could only think of Dean; his eyes, his soul. The way they touched sometimes, or used to touch. Dean’s laugh. His commitment to family, to the world. How he loved Dean more than anything, even more than God himself, now that he knew his Father had abandoned them all and left them to their own defenses.

But then, in the next instant, Castiel was miraculously being sewn back together. He could feel the recesses of his grace being gathered around his core, brought back together from all of the empty corners of the galaxy to be stitched up within his vessel’s body and placed back on that abandoned cemetery’s field, beside Dean, where he belonged.

He would have been happy, he would have been overjoyed at the fact that he was not dead, by the fact that he could still save Dean and be with him and help him stop Lucifer, but it seemed that it had already been done. Lucifer was nowhere in sight. Bobby was lying on the ground, his neck twisted at an odd angle, and Dean was lying in a similar position next to the Impala, his face bloody and his nose broken.

Castiel raced to Dean’s side, kneeling down to check his pulse. He was alive, but only just. Castiel had regained his power when he was sewn back together, so he merely reached down and touched his fingers to Dean’s sweating temple and the man was healed.

Dean groaned loudly and opened his eyes, filling the angel with relief and causing him to smile, but when the green eyes came to rest on Castiel’s face, there was nothing but fear and confusion there.

“Who the hell are you?”

Castiel’s smile faltered as he took in Dean’s harsh words. What did he mean, who the hell are you?

“Dean, what--”

Dean sat up abruptly and stood on shaky legs, holding his hands out in a defensive way. “How do you know my name?”

Castiel studied his face and stepped closer to Dean, holding out his hand and touching it to Dean’s forehead. Dean flinched backwards and tried to push Castiel away, but Castiel was stronger than him and held his ground.

Castiel could see his mind. He could see what had happened. Not through Dean’s memory, but by the traces of angelic power that had been left behind by Lucifer’s touch. Castiel could feel Lucifer’s mark, see what he had done.

He had wiped Dean’s memory. Everything that Dean had known of him, known of the apocalypse and of the world after he went to Hell, did not exist for him. It had never happened, which meant Castiel had never saved him, never met him, never befriended him, never fallen in love with him. According to Dean, Castiel did not exist.

Castiel staggered backwards, looking at Dean as blankly as possible. "Why?" It was all Castiel could say and all he could wonder.

“What the hell, man? Wha-- Bobby? Bobby!” Dean ran to Bobby’s prone form on the ground and knelt beside it. He grabbed the lapels of his jacket and shook him hard trying to rouse the man even though he knew he would not wake.

Castiel crossed the field and knelt beside him, touching two fingertips to the man’s temple and healing his broken neck.

Dean looked up at him, shocked, as Bobby sat up, sputtering, and looked at Castiel gratefully.

“Cas? You’re alive? I thought Lucifer put you through the meat grinder?”

“Lucifer? Cas? What the hell, Bobby, who is this guy? What the hell is going on?”

Bobby stared at Dean, his eyebrows furrowed in concern as Dean backed away from the both of them. Bobby turned to Castiel and raised questioning eyebrows at him.

“It seems Lucifer has wiped Dean’s memory.”

“Wiped my-- look, I remember just fine, thanks. And I think you mean Lilith. If anyone did anything to me around here, it was that bitch. Besides, she already did. I’m supposed to be in Hell. So why don’t one of you try and explain to me just why the hell I’m not.”

“Dean...”

“Perhaps I can show him.”

“How?”

“I seem to have gotten my ‘mojo’ back, so to speak. I should be able to show him what has happened since he got back from Hell.”

“Got back? You tellin’ me I’ve already been?!”

Castiel stepped closer to Dean, feeling crestfallen when Dean once again flinched away from him.

“Where’s Sammy, let me talk to him.”

Castiel turned to Bobby to find a look of grief on the man’s face. “Dean, I--”

“Let me show you. Please.” Castiel didn’t know what else they would be able to do. He prayed that Dean would let him show him what had happened, what he had done, how they had saved the world. He prayed Dean would let him show him who he was.

Dean hesitated, looking between Bobby and Castiel nervously, before sighing and giving in.

“Fine.”

Castiel stepped closer, his right hand finding Dean’s to the man’s apparent surprise, and his other touching two fingers to Dean’s forehead.

“Don’t worry, Dean. Don’t worry.” Castiel repeated the same words Dean had used to comfort hi, before they had made love the night before facing Lucifer and losing Jo and Ellen. His words seemed to comfort Dean, because Dean visibly relaxed, and when he began to show Dean the memories he had accumulated from the past two years, all of it taking less than a few seconds, he wondered if he would have to do this again, and how many times.

Suddenly, Dean was slammed back into his own skin, his head pounding for a few seconds before he could take in his new surroundings. He was definitely back in Bobby’s guest bedroom, and he was definitely looking through his own two eyes again. He registered the fact that he was still being held by Cas, who now supported his full weight. The angel’s arm was still wound tightly around his middle and his hand was resting on his cheek. 

“Cas...”

“Yes, Dean?” Castiel peered up at him as Dean regained full focus and zoned in on Cas’ blue eyes.

“Cas, how long you been doing this?”

Cas looked away and out the window, bringing his hand down from Dean’s cheek to rest limply at his side. He gazed back at Dean after a few moments, the pain evident in his eyes. “A while.”

“How long?”

“Almost a year, now.”

“A year?” Dean stepped back in horror and Castiel let him. He turned to sit on the edge of the bed and rested his head in his hands.

“Yes. I’m sorry, Dean. We’re still trying to find a way to cure you. We haven’t been successful. With Lucifer still in the pit, it’s proven difficult to find any answers. We still don’t know exactly how he did this to you.”

Dean peered out from the tips of his fingertips and gazed at Cas, his eyes softening as he could see the obvious pain in the angel’s face.

“Well... there anything else I should know? Where’s Bobby? And is Sammy--” Dean stopped, remembering that Sam had jumped into the Pit along with Lucifer. “Is he still down there?”

“Bobby is sleeping, I believe, and Sam has gone to do research on a vampire nest he may have discovered nearby.”

“Sammy’s alive?” Dean stood and grasped Castiel by the shoulders, smiling for the first time since he had woken up in bed with the beautiful stranger.

“Yes. After a few days, I decided to bring Sam back just as I had rescued you. I retrieved him from Hell.”

Dean brought Cas in closer, hugging him tightly. “Thank you.” He whispered this into Castiel’s neck as Cas wound his own arms around Dean’s middle and returned the embrace.

“Dean.”

Dean pulled away and looked into the eyes of the man who had saved him, had risked everything for him, had sacrificed himself for him and believed in him until the end, even until now, when Dean was a helpless wreck who needed to be looked after constantly. He looked into the eyes of the man who had been there for him since the second he laid his holy hands on him, pulling him out of Hell and creating their bond that Dean had been able to feel even when he couldn’t remember Castiel’s face that morning. 

“Yeah?”

“There’s another thing that you should know.”

Dean swallowed, nervous about what he would learn next from his angel. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“I love you.”

Dean was taken aback, but really, he shouldn’t have been by the number of times he’d heard it echo through his skull in the past few minutes as Cas showed him his memories. But he still hadn’t expected it. He hadn’t expected to melt when hearing the words verbally for the first time, he hadn’t expected the mutual feeling to come rushing up out of him and engulf him until he wanted to scream the words back at the angel in front of him. He hadn’t expected to love Castiel back as fiercely as he did after only the few scant memories he had been shown of the man.

Castiel pulled Dean in, then, and kissed him again. Only this time, there were no memories, there was no image changing to the next fleeting image. It was just him and Cas, pressed close and breath mingling, tongues colliding and hands gripping each other’s sides as each man devoured the other. 

Dean reached up to cup Cas’ face between his hands and slowed their pace, lovingly biting down onto Cas’ lower lip before breaking away and resting his forehead against his angel’s as Cas’ hands came up to grip Dean’s forearms lightly.

“I love you, too, Cas.” 

They kissed again, not breaking apart until Bobby could be heard opening his bedroom door down the hall and meandering towards the stairs. 

“Dean, there’s one more thing.”

 

Dean smiled this time, prepared for whatever Cas had to say. Honestly, what could shock him more than finding out they’d all saved the world and they’d all somehow survived and that he was in love with a freaking angel of the Lord who was a guy for Christ’s sake?

“Hmm?”

“We’re getting married today.”


End file.
